Hope
by DolbyDigital
Summary: He sits outside the bathroom counting the minutes on his watch, the hands seeming to tick slower with each passing second. There was a new craze going around, where young witches used Muggle methods to find out…


**A/N** — Also written for round six of QL, where I wrote about a light character committing the sin of envy. I had the optional prompts [dialogue] "I only came because I was told there was going to be cake." [dialogue] "Have I told you that I hate you recently?" and [word] risk.

And it bears mentioning that I know very little about how this works.

And I'd like to thank Liza for the help.

 **Warning** for miscarriage.

* * *

He sits outside the bathroom counting the minutes on his watch, the hands seeming to tick slower with each passing second. There was a new craze going around, where young witches used Muggle methods to find out…

He taps his foot on the worn carpet, trying to think of anything else. They should probably replace the carpet, he thinks, and maybe re-do the whole landing. He starts mapping out potential colour schemes in his mind, which inevitably leads to…

The door opens, and it's only then that he realises he probably shouldn't have been leaning on it, but years of Quidditch mean he's still pretty toned. The smile drops off her face as she looks down at him.

"Why are you sitting there?" she asks. "Never-mind," she says, waving him off before he can respond. "Look!" She holds out the test to him, and he twists his head at an awkward angle so he can see without having to touch it. Two lines.

"Angie," he whispers, looking up at her beaming face. "I have no idea what this means."

"Read the tone, George," she snaps, smile dropping once more, but she goes to get him the box.

.oOo.

They wait a few months before telling their families — George hadn't understood why, and he was sure Angelina hadn't either, but apparently it was the 'done thing'.

"Mum," George says, looking across the table at the woman who raised him. He doesn't know what to say, sudden nerves taking over. 'I'm gonna be a dad', is a safe option, he thinks. 'We're having a baby' or 'Angie's pregnant' are both sound. Instead: "I'm pregnant," he blurts, much to the amusement of his brothers. Angie slaps the back of his head, giving him a glare that might manage to match that of Molly Weasley one day.

"We're having a baby," she clarifies, turning to his family, all smiles now. After the initial embarrassment passes, he grins too.

.oOo.

"Have I told you I hate you recently?" Angelina grumbles, refusing to relinquish her sandwich. Angie's nearing six months now, and their daughter's getting pretty active.

"Mum gave us this," he says, ignoring her comment, and pushing open the door to the nursery. Already, there's a cot — Angie's, from when she was a baby — and a few things from Bill and Victoire that their daughter's have outgrown. He takes her hand, pulling her over to the purple knitted quilt draped over the side of the crib, with a large letter G in contrasting yellow.

"You told your mum her name?" Angie asks accusingly, frowning at George. A few crumbs fall to the floor.

"I thought you did?" Angie shakes her head.

"Well, it's beautiful," she says, letting go of George's hand to trace a row of stitching. "And you're mum's clearly psychic."

.oOo.

Angie shakes him awake in the middle of the night, and even through the sleep still in his eyes he can see the pain that fills her expression. He glances down at her hands, her knuckles standing out starkly from where she clutches the sheets so tightly.

"George," she whispers, her voice thick with tears.. He looks up, sees traces of sleep in her eyes as though she woke up suddenly. "I think—" She winces. "George, something's wrong. Something's wrong with the baby."

There isn't time to panic; he rushes her to St Mungo's, trying to ignore the blood that stains the sheets and the back of her nightie. Afterwards, that's all George can remember of that night.

.oOo.

They name her Grace and bury her on a Sunday.

.oOo.

Louis' born a month after the funeral, almost to the day. Angie insists they visit Fleur in the hospital, but George can't get the image of stained sheets out of his mind. In the end, Angie agrees to wait until they bring him home to meet their nephew.

Charlie's going to be there, and Ron and Hermione, too, which George thinks will make things easier. It doesn't. He can see the visible change in atmosphere as soon as they arrive. What had once been a happy occasion is now marred by their presence.

Charlie pulls him into a one-armed hug.

"It's great to see you," he says, and George appreciates the effort but his smile still seems forced.

"George," Hermione greets him with a warm hug, though there's still sorrow on her face. "Angie." She stays with his wife a little longer. Ron nods, giving him a hard pat on the back.

Bill can't even look him in the eyes.

.oOo.

Years pass in a monotonous blur, and George knows he's working too much, that he's using the shop as a distraction from his grief. He doesn't see his family that often anymore, he can't bring himself see their ever-increasing numbers.

It's like being trapped in '98 all over again, except this time Angie doesn't know how to bring him out of it. She's coping with her own demons.

It's then that he realises something he should have known all along: this can't work. Not if they keep shutting the other out. So, he decides to take the biggest risk of his marriage.

He cooks his wife dinner.

.oOo.

Things get better after that. They're talking again, helping each other through it. Something they should have been doing a lot earlier — it's a miracle their marriage made it as far as it did, when he stops to think about it, but mostly, they're moving forward now.

They open the door to her room, air it out a little. Everything's covered in a thick layer of dust, but neither wants to move anything just yet.

But they do take out her blanket, wash it carefully.

Angie folds it and leaves it at the end of their bed.

Neither mention it.

.oOo.

"I think we should try again," Angie says carefully. Like she's talking to a wounded animal. "If you're ready." George nods slowly.

"I think—" he begins, pausing to think of the right words. "I think we should get checked out," he says. "Just in case." She nods.

"Just in case," she repeats.

.oOo.

They're called into St Mungo's, and it can't be anything good. Why would they need to see them in person if they were just being told nothing's wrong?

George's trepidations prove correct.

Angie can't have kids.

It could be harmful to her to even try.

They're surprised the pregnancy lasted as long as it had.

.oOo.

Ron and Hermione bring Rose 'round to visit, George being the only uncle she has yet to meet.

Angie rushes over instantly, cooing at the little girl and pulling faces.

When it's George's turn to hold her, he looks down at the baby and feels his heart shatter all over again, now that he's holding everything that could have — _should_ have — been his.

He's never hated any of his siblings as much as he hates Ron in that moment. Not when they were kids, and it was a constant battle to keep his possessions; not when Bill or Charlie left, or even when Percy—

Rose whimpers, and Hermione takes her back quickly.

"She's probably just hungry," she assures, giving George a strange look. He can't quite bring himself to meet her eyes, guilt already clouding his mind.

.oOo.

"I know we talked about this before, a little," Angie says one night over dinner. They've made sure, now, to always have at least one meal a day together and to go out at least once a week. "But I don't think we really gave it much serious thought." He waits patiently, chewing his lasagne slowly. "We weren't ready then, but I think we are now." She runs her fork through her pasta.

"Angie," he says when it looks like she's not going to say anything more. She lifts her head quickly, as though startled.

"I think we should adopt," she blurts. He nods, putting down his fork.

"I think we still have those leaflets the doctor gave us," he says.

.oOo.

They're placed on a list, told it might be a long wait, but they're hopeful. Truly hopeful for possibly the first time in years.

But the weeks quickly turn to months; the months to years.

They begin a new routine. They keep to their date nights and daily meals together, but they start to check the post together, too. Just in case.

Nothing arrives, and George starts to doubt it ever will, but they keep up the routine.

.oOo.

The letter comes on an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday, and George almost misses it because he's got so used to just throwing post aside.

"Wait!" Angie stops his hand before he can put in on the pile with the rest of the opened post. He's occupied with thoughts of the shop — they should really get someone else to do invoices, now that they can afford it — but he looks up when she speaks. And then back to the letter.

And there it is.

.oOo.

The girl — not even out of her teens — doesn't want to meet them, but writes them letters over the months. George offers her anything she wants from the shop, free of charge, and Angie… Well, he doesn't know what Angie says, but the girl takes an instant shine to her.

And they're so close. So close to having everything they've ever wanted. But then…

She changed her mind.

George wants to ask her — wants to find out why now, when they're so close — but Angie stops him.

"It's her baby," she whispers, her voice thick with tears. "Her little girl. She's allowed to change her mind."

"But what if she changes it again?" he asks. "What if she decides in a couple months — in a couple years — that she's not ready? That she doesn't want to be a parent?"

"George." Angie's voice breaks, and George winces. "She's an adult. She can make her own decisions."

"She's a _teenager_ ," he snaps, hating himself just a little when she flinches back. But it's not enough to curb his anger; his _hurt_. "She's still a child herself. How can she _possibly—_ "

"George," Angie pleads. "You're making this harder."

.oOo.

More years pass, and they stop checking the post so regularly. It starts to build up on the kitchen table, neither of them able to bring themselves to move it.

George decides they've waited long enough.

"Hey, Angie?" he calls, entering the house slowly. "Don't be mad."

"What have you done?" she snaps, and he follows her voice into the living room.

"Well, I—" She rushes towards him as soon as she sees what's in his arms.

"What's his name?" she coos, cradling him to her chest and covering his head in kisses.

"I figured you could name him," he says, smiling softly.

"Oswald." She nods, laughing as the puppy licks her face.

.oOo.

"Uncle George!" Dominique yells — or was it Molly? — bounding over to them. "What are you doing here?" she asks.

"I only came because I was told there was going to be cake," he says.

"There's always cake at parties, silly." She grins up at him, showing the large gap from a missing tooth. "You have to ask Daddy for it, though." She takes his hand, leading him over to where Percy is.

"Lucy—" _Lucy_? Surely she wasn't this old already? "—found your uncle, I see." She grins up at her dad, and George feels something he's managed to ignore for a long time. It's ugly, and a little wistful, and he quickly pushes the emotion down.

"Have you seen Aunty Angelina?" he asks Lucy, just as various excited yells sound from near the front door. Lucy stands on tip-toes to see.

"A _puppy_?" she squeals, and she's off

.oOo.

The kids start to come 'round more often now, and George wonders how boring his house must have been in the last decade. He's not sure any of the kids have been 'round since Rose was a baby.

It's difficult at first, seeing so clearly what they have been denied. But they cope. And it gets better.

He enjoys having the children 'round — he hadn't realised how much of their lives he was missing before, so stuck in his own grief — and he starts to like the noise they bring.

He loves how alive they make the house feel.

.oOo.

The door gets left open, and James comes to him in tears.

They put out posters on the Thursday.

The call comes on the Monday.

They bury Oswald in the back garden on the Tuesday.

.oOo.

The kids still come 'round after that, which he finds a little surprising, but it's nice to have the house stay so full.

"I'm really sorry," Harry says, once again.

"For the last time, Harry," George says — half exasperated, half good natured. "It was an accident."

"Still," Harry says. "I can buy you a new puppy." George hides his frown at that.

"Really, Harry. It's fine."

.oOo.

Finally, _finally_ , they get a floo call. There's a boy — a little older than they listed on the forms — but the agency think they would be a good match for him.

"How old is he?" Angie asks, when they have the face-to-face meeting with the agency.

"He'll be turning four next month," the woman says, turning pages in his file. "The seventh." George and Angelina both nod, completely captivated with this child already, despite knowing not to get their hopes up. "There'll be a trial period, of course," she continues. "Just for a fortnight, to make sure everything's okay."

They leave the office with yet more paperwork — and there's been so much of that over the years that they've developed a system to fill out forms in the shortest amount of time; but not in this case.

This time, it's different.

And, every time he reads the boy's name, George cries.


End file.
